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Absently, Anastasia studied her own party dress, noting that other than a fine layer of dirt along the hem, it was respectably clean.
Now that spawned an idea.
"I know! We can change dresses." Even as she spoke, she spied Wells, the Medford butler, striding down the endless corridor, heading in their direction. Any second he would spot them—if he hadn't done so already. It was too late for scrambling in and out of their dresses.
"No," she amended dejectedly. "We don't have time. It would've worked, too, 'cause our dresses look exactly the same—" Abruptly she broke off, her eyes lighting up as she contemplated another, far better and more intriguing possibility. "So do we."
Breanna's brows drew together. "So do we … what?"
"Look exactly the same. Everyone says so. Our fathers are twins. Our mothers are sisters—or at least they were until yours went to heaven. No one can ever tell us apart. Even Mama and Papa get confused sometimes. So why don't you be me and I'll be you?"
"You mean switch places?" Breanna's fear was supplanted by interest. "Can we do that?"
"Why not?" Swiftly, Anastasia combed her fingers through her tangled masses of coppery hair, trying—with customary six-year-old awkwardness—to arrange them in some semblance of order. "We'll fool everyone and save you from Uncle George."
"But then you'll get in trouble."
"Not like you would. Papa might be annoyed, but Uncle George would be…"
"I know." Breanna's gaze darted toward Wells, who was now almost upon them. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Anastasia grinned, becoming more and more intrigued by the notion. "It'll be fun. Let's try it, just this once."
An impish smile curved Breanna's lips. "A whole hour or two to speak out like you do. I can hardly wait."
"Don't wait," Anastasia hissed. "Start now." So saying, she lowered her chin a notch, clasping the folds of her gown between nervous fingers in a gesture that was typically Breanna. "Hello, Wells," she greeted the butler.
"Where have you two been? I've looked everywhere for you." Wells's eyes, behind heavy spectacles, flickered from Anastasia to Breanna—who had thrown back her shoulders and assumed Anastasia's more brazen stance. "All of us, most particularly your grandfather, have been worried sick… Oh, no." Seeing the condition of Breanna's gown, Wells's long, angular features tensed.
"It's not as bad as it looks, Wells," Breanna assured him with one of Anastasia's confident smiles. "It was only a little trip and a littler fall."
A rueful nod. "You're right, Miss Stacie," he agreed. "It could have been worse. It could be Miss Breanna who'd taken the spill. I shudder to think what the outcome of that would have been. Now then…" He waved them toward the dining room, frowning as he became aware of the heavy silence emanating from within. "Hurry. Tell them you're all right. It will certainly brighten your grandfather's birthday."
With an uneasy glance in that direction, he scooted off, retracing his steps to the entranceway.
The girls' eyes met, and they grinned.
"We fooled him," Breanna murmured in wonder. "No one fools Wells."
"No one but us," Anastasia said with great satisfaction. She nudged her cousin forward. "Let's go." An impish twinkle. "After you, Stacie."
Breanna giggled. Then, head held high, she preceded Anastasia into the dining room—despite the soiled gown—just as her cousin would have.
Once inside, they waited, assessing the scene before them.
The elegant mahogany table was formally set, its crystal and silver gleaming beneath the glow of the room's ornate chandelier. At the head of the table sat their beloved grandfather, his elderly face strained as he looked from one son to the other. At the sideboard, George bristled, splashing some brandy into a glass and glaring across the room at his brother, who was shaking his head resignedly. Henry nodded as he listened to the soothing words his wife, Anne, was murmuring in his ear.
Grandfather was the first to become awa
re of his granddaughters' presence, and he beckoned them forward, his pursed lips curving into a smile of welcome. "At last. My two beautiful…" His words drifted off as he noted Breanna's stained and wrinkled gown. "What on earth happened?"
"We took a walk, Grandfather," Breanna replied, playing the part of Anastasia to perfection. "We were bored. So we went exploring. We climbed trees. We tried to catch fireflies. It was my idea—and my own fault that I fell. I forgot all about the time, and I was rushing too fast on my way back. I didn't see the mud puddle."
The Viscount Medford's lips twitched. "I see," he replied evenly.
Anastasia walked sedately to her grandfather's side. "We apologize, Grandfather," she said, intentionally using Breanna's sweet tone and respectful gaze. "Stacie and I were having fun. But it is your birthday. And we should never have left the manor."
"Nonsense, my dear." He leaned over and caressed his granddaughter's cheek. His insightful green gaze swept over her, his eyes surrounded by the tiny lines that heralded sixty years of life. Then he shifted to assess her cousin's more rumpled state. "You're welcome to explore to your hearts' content. The only reason for our concern was that it's becoming quite dark and neither of you knows your way around Medford's vast grounds. But now that you're here, no apology is necessary." He cleared his throat. "Anastasia, are you hurt?" he asked Breanna.
